Superstar
by Velvedere
Summary: Jesus Christ Superstar fic...written in a very depressed mood if you can't already tell. I still think it makes a valid point.


There were so many things going through his head at that moment; that split second in time while he stood there on the empty stage, reliving his last show. His last performance ever. He thought he would have missed it, regretted having made this decision so quickly. But no. There was nothing left inside him to feel. Empty. He'd been empty ever since he left New York. Empty ever since he left Les Miserables after playing Marius for such a short time. Empty ever since he left her standing there, not even saying goodbye. He'd come back to the tour of Jesus Christ Superstar...having to beg for his job, which by some miracle of irony he was given. Everyone was still there: Jesus, Mary, but they all looked at him strangely. The moment he walked back into the rehearsal hall after his six-month leave all eyes had fallen upon him. Did they know? Could they see how drastically he'd changed? How could they possible have known? He'd left the JCS tour with at least a spark of hope, a fantasy that he could still make it in performing and with the girl he'd always adored, but when he came back...after New York...he didn't even have that.

He was off the pills, at least. They were glad to hear that.

His last show started off well enough. The usual wishes of good luck as he stood there in the dark, his black jeans and leather jacket at Judas a petty protection against, hair swept back and out of his face where his body mike was hidden. He'd been considering the option for some time now. But that night, as he listened to the overture music blast out over the darkened stage, it almost frightened him at how seriously he was taking it. How to do it...when...where... It would have to wait.

If nothing else, he could still sing.

"_Listen Jesus to the warning I give!_

Please remember that I want us to live.

But it's sad to see our chances weakening with every hoooooouuuuuuur!"

From the beginning he knew. He knew from that very first note as he stepped out into view, entirely in character, feeling the old familiarity of it all coming back. He knew...this was going to be his show. Jesus whom he so hated may have been the star, but he could hear it in the words he sang, in some perverse path of thought in his own mind how they reflected his situation. His last show. This was his life. It had to be good.

The feeling was even more incredible. Being evil...thinking like his characters Judas...he couldn't describe how actually good it felt. To stare Jesus down in pure hatred, to smack Mary around, to pick fights with the other cast members. To betray those he supposedly once loved. To basically tell the entire world to f--k off... It felt so good to finally let go of all convictions.

The music flowed through his veins, so intense, so emotional. The thundering beat of the drums replaced that of his heart, and he drew his last life from the flow of the rock'n'roll songs, his every breath. The emotion was indescribable...a welcoming release from real life. He hardly paid any attention to getting the right words out, let alone notes, but somehow that part of performance was bred into him and took care of itself. He sang purely from his heart, blinded of all else. He met the eyes of the other cast members as he moved among them, aloof, angry, a traitor already to himself and to the world, but what they saw in his eyes was only a desperate animal, faced with one of the most horrible decisions anyone could make. Even through the words that didn't mean anything...just the music that drove them, dripped with his violent, angry, sorrowful emotions.

"_It's not that I object to her profession,_

But she doesn't fit in well,

With what you teach and say.

It doesn't help us if you're inconsistent.

They only need a small excuse to put us all away."

He remembered it all. Every emotion. Every movement that was so energized because of his thoughts, his knowledge, his experience. Nothing escaped his memory...

When Jesus shot back at him:

"_Surely, you're not saying we have the resources_

To save the poor from their lot.

There will be poor always, pathetically struggling,

Look at the good things you've got.

Think while you still have me.

Move while you still see me.

You'll be lost...you'll be so sorry...

When I'm goooooooooooooone!"

When Caiaphas and the other priests roared out at him in their deep bass voices, though he wasn't even onstage:

"_Fools! You have no perception!_

The stakes we are gambling are frighteningly high.

We must crush him completely,

So like John before him, this Jesus must die."

To himself it was all about him. His situation. His decision. Simon's rock'n'roll vocals, scales, as he wailed out with the skill he would have killed for as a kid to possess...the music of the fight reached into his soul, tapped some deep hidden part of him that drew an unexpected sob even as he watched from his perch through Judas's eyes, cold and cynical. No real meaning...just pure emotion.

"_C'mon!_" Simon's player yelled:

"_You'll get the power and the glory!_

For ever and ever and ever!

Foreveeeeeeer and eveeeeeeeeeer!!!"

The temple scene, full of prostitutes, drugs, gambling...all the artificiality he had filled his life with. He'd been a romantic once. He'd once believed in true and everlasting love. He wrote about it, dreamed about it, then he grew up. The world wasn't like what he'd always depicted in his stories. Innocence was lost. He wasn't in the scene, but the thundering notes of the electric guitar and keyboard as they sliced the air, driving home each staccato note of the singers, struck true to his heart. This was what he'd come to:

"_What you see is what you get._

No one's been disappointed yet.

Don't be scared, give me a try,

There is nothing you can't buy!"

The mournful solo that followed, Jesus's voice carrying a soothing tone through the auditorium, and he turned away. He couldn't stand to hear the lepers...begging for help, wretches declaring their faith for the sole purpose of being healthy again... In his own relationship with whatever God he'd ever believed in, he often felt a failure. He'd never been very affiliated with religion, but it seemed like a big issue now. Maybe just because of the show.

Then Mary, beautiful and talented, in her solo to a sleeping Jesus. "I like to pretend I'm singing to you then," she had told him only a few days before. "You seem to need it more than he does..." She meant Mary's main song:

"_Should I bring him down?_

Should I scream and shout?

Should I speak of love?

Let my feelings out?

I never thought I'd come to this!

What's it all about?"

Of course he thought about the other girl in making his decision. How could he not? She would blame herself if she heard, he knew. Maybe she wouldn't hear about it. Maybe he could write her a letter...if it would even work. What could he possibly say to her now? Just the truth. She had nothing to do with any of it. He had brought this on himself.

But then he was evil again. He had always tried to lead a decent life, be a good man to those he knew in every day life. But being evil now felt so wonderful. He wondered if it would have been the same any other time before. If he ever glared at the other girl as he did then, kneeling down as Judas caught Mary kissing a sleeping Jesus, that knowing, cold, calculated smirk on his face. A final: "I told you so." The synthesizer solo that accompanied it. Those sharp, rising and falling notes of absolute dreadful irony as Jesus woke up. He slid forward, feeling so erotically vile, like a portrayal of Macavity, and slid his mouth over Mary's cheek, confirming that she was nothing but a prostitute. She tried to smack him. He blocked her, tossed her away. Then a stare-down with Jesus before he went to turn the man so loved over to the priests. All of this, seeming so cold and emotionless, happening to that synthesizer solo, more powerful in the feelings it drew out of Judas than anything he could remember. For the last time...pure mockery, all of it. Now for his defining moment...

He lay prone and defenseless at the feet of Caiaphas, Annas, and the priests. They could kill him easily, but instead...instead...they let him damn himself to Hell. He heard his own voice.

"_Just don't say I'm..._

Daaaaaaamned fooooooor aaaaaaaaall tiiiime!"

"_Why are we the prophets?_

Why am I the one

Who sees the sad solution;

Knows what must be done?!"

He tried to crawl away from them, having lost all his dignity, all other reason, but they pursued like vultures:

"_We've noted your motives,_

We've noted your feelings.

This isn't blood money.

It's a fee...nothing more."

Judas took the money. He was beyond help now. The cast filtered off the stage, leaving him alone--all alone--as the stage darkened for Intermission. There was applause, of course, but as he stumbled off-stage under the cover of darkness with only a feeling of dread. He only had half the show to go now. He would have to know by the end. Perhaps he already knew. If this was to be his last, then perhaps he already knew...

"Christ!" Jesus exclaimed as he slumped against one of the hallway walls backstage, wondering why he only now felt tired, thirsty, and hot. He couldn't remember being like that out on stage, under the lights, holding the pressure of a watching audience. "On what side of whose bed did you wake up on this morning?"

"For real!" Mary said, tossing one hand to her chest breathlessly. "I have never seen you so worked up!"

But he didn't say anything in return. He held his silence so they wouldn't know what he was thinking, planning, keeping his mind in a careless euphoria as the music drifted back into him, taking him away from brutal reality. He knew they would be going back out there, soon. He would be facing the much more intense, so much more emotionally ransacking Act Two. Could he handle it? Would he have his mind made up by then, even as the music tore his soul apart and left him lethally exposed to the elements of emotion? He would have to. He had no choice. The second half of the show began.

But none of this: emotion, music, release, compared at all with the confrontation. He was confronting himself here, not Jesus. He took up his seat at the end of the table for the Last Supper, sipping his imaginary beer, listening to Jesus's lamenting until the time for outburst came. The music...the overwhelming sense of guilt that came with it...he became outright violent. He did things in that confrontation that were never blocked out in rehearsal...that he never would have normally done.

Jesus was his target, the man he so hated who even now sung words that reflected his own despair:

"_And that's not all, I see_

One of you here dining...

One of my twelve chosen

Will leave to betray me!"

He slammed one fist against the table, heaving himself to his feet:

"_Cut out the dramatics!_

You know very well who!"

He tore the tablecloth away, scattering candles, plates, and cups, drawing sharp cries in automatic reaction from the Apostles:

"_To think I admired you!_

For now I despise you!

You wanted me to do it!

What if I just stayed here and ruined your ambition?

Christ, you deserve it!"

Jesus met him head on, knowing the radiating hate, the jealousy, the sorrow only as a terrific show of acting:

"_Hurry you fool!_

Hurry and go!

Save me your speeches,

I don't wanna know! Gooooo!"

The high pitch of his voice hurt his ears, the way it rang out so strong and piercing, but there was no stopping now. The chorus came back, ironic, sorrowful, and driving--but most of all mocking--as he at one end of the table and Jesus at the other stared each other down, hating, mocking, weeping. The music pounded, threatening to rupture his very brain, but he drew the strength to continue from those heart-wrenching notes that drew a lump of raw emotion to his throat, making his next sung lines choked and difficult to get out.

He climbed up on the table, storming towards Jesus, tearing off his leather jacket entirely ready to fight. But when Jesus wouldn't raise his fists in return, he shoved him down to the floor before the other cast members came to his rescue. He screamed out at himself, venting all feelings blended together in one strangled sound:

"_You sad, pathetic man!_

See where you've brought us to!

Our ideals die around us,

And all because of you!"

Jesus climbed up on the table to face him, dwarfing all others, leaving audience and cast alike dumb with awe at the spectacle:

"_Get out, they're waiting!_

Get ouuuuuuttt!

They're waiting, oh, they're waiting for you!"

It was an internal conflict on this stage that he was beginning to lose. He knew that, and it reflected in Judas's tormented words, directed at none but himself. The others couldn't see that. They would all think he was only acting, drawing the exact desired response from the audience, but all it did was remind him of how alone he was. Alone and empty. He loathed himself so completely it was unbearable:

"_Every time I look at you, I don't understand!_

Why you let the things you did get so out of hand!

You've have managed better if you'd had it planned!

Ohhhhooaawhoah....whoahoahwhoah..."

The final notes of the confrontation played as Judas flung himself as Jesus's feet, begging for it to end, letting loose his hold on everything in genuine tears and the shearing of his heart. It was all gone. This point forward, there was nothing...those few notes, a simple ending by electric guitar, spoke all that through his heart. He hated himself, hated Jesus, hated the entire world. He had always thought the confrontation was the single most powerful scene in all of the JCS, not just because of the intense music and emotions that ran so high, but the meaning behind it...he'd always thought that. But what he felt now, this power from sheer music, was unreal. He dragged his wretched self off as Jesus broke into Gethsemane, an otherwise equally powerful song had Jesus not been singing it, and himself paying attention. He could have found a meaning in the words...a meaning so parallel to his own...but his mind was occupied.

"_Then I was inspired._

Now I'm sad and tired.

Listen, surely I've exceeded expectations...

Tried for three years, seems like thirty,

Could you ask as much from any other man?"

He made his decision then, the falling notes of Gethsemane providing a sorrowful background as he stared into the blackness of backstage from where he stood in the wings, waiting to go on. The rest of the show was downhill...it was only right. He'd performed in this show hundreds of times already, but now, hearing Jesus wail out his death, it was as though he'd never known it before. All else passed by in a blur. Throughout Jesus's trial, the criticizings from black-clad nameless spectators, the mournful wailing of Mary and those who remained loyal...Judas sifted in and out through it all, watching, the inner wound widening, deepening into a pitch black abyss until it inevitably swallowed the player along with him.

Judas hung himself, but it was his player who put the rope around his neck. If nothing else in the entire show, the feeling of impending suicide was one he could portray with utmost accuracy. No one probably caught it, but his botched words was what finally did it:

"_When he's cold and dead,_

Will he let me be?

Does he love...

Does she love me too?

Does she care for me...?!"

The other girl might have been part of the reason, but not a big part. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway

The electric guitar again...the synthesizer solo...he dragged himself, mind in darkness, utterly sick, towards the platform as the rope lowered. He cried out to God, blaming, accusing, pleading, all in vain. Mostly he just cried:

"_You have murdered me!_"

He went up, and up, and up...then removed the rope. Even the ultimate feeling of release would be denied to him for now.

"_We need him crucified!_

It's all you have to do!"

His last show. One final triumph. One final song. He burst out onto the stage in a flashing glare of lights and music, clad in his bright red jacket and black sequence, voice blaring into the microphone held in his hand as a series of cameras broadcasted his grinning, devilish image upon a large screen high above them. One last blaze of glory to cling to:

"_Every time I look at you, I don't understand!_

Why you let the things you did get so out of hand!

You've have managed better if you'd had it planned,

Now why'd you chose such a backward time in such a strange land?

If you'd come today, you could have reached a whole nation!

Israel in 4 BC had no mass-communication!

Don't you get me wrong...I only wanna know!

Tell me what you think about your friends at the top!

Who'd you think besides yourself's the pick of the crop?

Bhudda, was he where it's at? Is he where you are?

Could Mohammed move a mountain, or was that just PR?

Did you mean to die like that? Was that a mistake, or

Did you know your messy death would be a record-breaker?"

Again, the words meant zilch. He didn't care what he sang now. It was all about emotion. The emotion was undoubtedly there, as well. It poured from his throat, from his heart, commanding the stage with every movement and scaling note. Then, the moment of reflection...

"_Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,_

Who are you? What have you sacrificed?"

The show was over. He decided to kill himself.

"_Don't let me stop your great self-destruction!_

Die if you want to, you misguided martyr!"

It was too late to go back. His mind was made up. Jesus's previously sung words echoed through his mind:

"_The end is just a little harder_

When brought about by friends..."

The other girl might have been part of the reason, but not all of it. It wasn't her rejection. In fact, he admired her for that. She was married. Even when he tried to draw her away, like some Chauvelin character, Marguerite remained true to her Percy. It shattered his ideals of true love and all that crap he'd dreamed of, but that was his problem. He loved her. Always would, come what may. He stood in the theatre now, cold and dark at it was early morning. Everyone had left after the show ended at around midnight, but he had hidden himself and now remained, lingering in the place he'd always loved. Theatre: where he'd always felt truly at home. If he had to go, he wanted it to be here. He had at least control over that.

Standing there in the dark, barely even a few houselights to illuminate the ghostly old opera house, he stared up blankly into the blackness, in one hand held a small black object. He could remember her standing there on the sidewalk when he told her he was leaving again. It just couldn't work...him there in New York with her so close and yet beyond his reach forever. He'd kissed her then, a kiss of affection, of apology for all the trouble he'd caused, and turned, never once looking back. She could have protested him, but he didn't think she had. Some things were just tragic. He thought he knew that, but apparently it had yet to hit him full swing until he came back to the tour. Actually he didn't want to do this. Not really.

So why didn't he try to protest?

"_Why do you not speak when I have your life in my hands?_

How can you stay quiet, I don't believe you understand!"

Because there was no other choice. When he was young he liked to believe his fantasy that one could live on performance, like his fantasy heroes, but it wasn't true. He had nothing else going for him, either. He would die sooner than later, anyway. At least this way he could dictate the terms of it. He knew there had to be a higher meaning in all of this, glancing down at the gun in his hand. Where he'd gotten it, he couldn't quite remember. It didn't matter. There was a meaning for all of this, he was sure, probably hidden in the small letter he'd scribbled out and left in his dressing room. Hopefully they would all understand. Hopefully she would understand. He wasn't sad about this. Not at all.

He wondered, with an ironic chuckle, what song would fit the way he felt now. There was a song for every emotion and feeling out there, as far as he knew Broadway. There had to be something...for her...

"_I've been living to see you..._

Dying to see you, but it shouldn't be like this.

This was unexpected, what do I do now?

Could we start again, please?

I've been very hopeful so far.

Now for the first time I think we're going wrong.

Hurry up and tell me this is just a dream,

Or could we start again please?

I think you've made your point now.

You've even gone a bit too far to get the message home.

Before it gets too frightening,

We ought to call a halt.

So could we start again, please?"

Life was a song, but his was over now. He lifted the gun to his head, closed his eyes, and fired.


End file.
